It is impossible to imagine anything more sublime than these blood-red precipices—more wonderful, more perpendicular, and more lofty here than where we had first seen them—almost shutting out the sky from our sight, and again falling beneath us in an unfathomable gorge that made one shudder to look into. The heads of these rocks were like a succession of Rhenish castles, so turreted, and tower shaped, and peaked were they; and Speloncato, with its three-pinnacled summit, was more striking in appearance and crimson in hue than any other.
This extraordinary blood-red colour is not enhanced by sunshine or peculiar lights; it is the real colour of the stone, of which broken bits lie about the road. The Corsican rocks are usually very vivid, and especially the red granite and the porphyry.
There was not a gleam of sunshine as we passed amongst the Porto rocks; and I do not know that I regret it. The savage beauty and desolate grandeur of such a scene is perhaps best seen under the chill of grey sky and distant thunder clouds.
Passing, after a time, out of this wild region, we emerged once more among more barren-looking hills, past the village of Asta and along a boulder-strewn brawling torrent, shaded by its fringe of foliage.
Here were some most extraordinary hollowed rocks. One, like a huge eggshell in shape, lay upon the gravel beside the stream. It was completely hollow, like a blown egg, the shell being only a few inches thick, with a natural opening at one side, about four feet high, and would have made a comfortable shelter for eight or ten men. Another, half-way up the hill-side, and something the same shape, only with a flat bottom, was called "La Petite Maisonnette," having been adopted by a wise shepherd as his home, and a little brick wall with a door, built on the open side.
A few more minutes brought us to the top of a hill, whence we looked down once more upon the sea. The Gulf of Porto lay, wide-stretching, at our feet; the sun, which had now come out for a short gleam, lighting up the many picturesque promontories which ran out into the blue distance, and sparkling on the yellow line on an opposite hill, marking the route to Calvi. A Genoese round tower lay upon the little headland beneath our feet, and, behind it, two or three houses. Antonio pulled up his horses for a moment at our request, and No. 3 took a hasty sketch.
"There, mademoiselle," said he, pointing with his whip in the direction of the round tower, "is the town of Porto."
"But where?" we asked. "We only see three houses."
Antonio smiled feebly. "There are only five in the town, I believe," said he.
The peninsula of Porto is almost as red as the rocks which take their name from it, and is in a most lovely situation. It was formerly a much larger and more important place than now, and at one time was a favourite resort of visitors. But, built in a corner as it is, on the sea-level, and surrounded by stagnant pool and slow river, it has now a dangerous reputation for fever, and in summer the heat is something intolerable to the few inhabitants.